


The Razor

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:38:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3290621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roose returns to the Dreadfort after the Red Wedding in need of a shave.  He finds that he needs to teach his bastard a lesson in composure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Razor

**Author's Note:**

> Fic is set in quasi-showverse, after an unshorn Roose returns to the Dreadfort following the events of the Red Wedding. The rest is bookverse.

“The razor,” Lord Bolton says, and although his voice is calm, his tone is absolute, and will brook no protestations. Ramsay watches, biting his lip as he wipes the remnants of foam from his face, the newly-shorn skin tender against the roughness of the linen rag. He holds the blade as though it is a favorite toy, and it is, although he does not number it among the better curated weapons that he has purloined from his father’s stores, obtained during Roose’s absence in the south. He brushes its edge along his gloves, somehow hoping to dull it. 

“Ramsay.” His father’s voice is deep, resonant, filling the room in a way that Ramsay’s own approximation of lord’s speech will never do. It is imbued with an easy confidence, the weight of his office, newly-granted, and the assurance of birthright, coloring its tone. “My patience is at an end.” Lord Bolton seats himself the leather chair, still warm from his bastard’s body, leaning his head back, but not quite closing his eyes. It is not Roose Bolton’s style to take chances, no matter how small. 

“You wish me to shave you, Father?” Ramsay blurts, resentment prickling at him. He has met nothing but criticism since Lord Bolton’s return, despite his assumptions to the contrary. He has made a mess of things somehow, and both confusion and bitterness cloud his thoughts as Roose’s coolly disapproving tone echoes in his ear. 

Roose’s eyes dart towards the corner of the room, where Reek cowers in the shadows, cramming himself against the wall in what appears to be a pitiful attempt to disappear. Regardless of how much flesh Ramsay’s ministrations have cleaved from bone, the creature still exists, and his submission in a quiet place such as the Dreadfort only makes his presence more obvious. 

Ramsay is torn between wanting to hide his Reek away from his father’s analytic gaze, and wanting to publically shame his conduct. This is no way to act in front of his Lord Father. A proper servant would be attentive, would bear himself with a quiet dignity, would be prepared to serve his master in whatever way he saw fit. He would not squint against the light, or thrust his remaining fingers between cracked lips, suckling at them to soothe himself. 

“I thought to have your pet service me,” Roose says then, his expression mild in the face of the growing anger that clouds Ramsay’s expression. “If he is as leal a man as you say, it should allay my own suspicions.”

An ugly red flush mottles his complexion as Ramsay turns to face Reek, who appears not to have heard a word. “He will not obey you, Father. He is _mine_ , and he only does as I say.” He chokes back the rest of the anger that threatens to spill over, knowing full well that his reaction will only earn more criticism. But still, Reek is his. Roose had as good as given him to him when he gave the orders to take the Greyjoy ward as a hostage. What did he want with Ramsay’s pet when he had his new bride to toy with? Perhaps the Frey bitch is too good to play the serving wench. 

“Call him over here then,” Roose says, his fingers idly beckoning toward the figure across the room. “He _is_ yours, as you say.” A thin, mocking smile quirks his lips. 

*

Roose watches as what was left of the Greyjoy ward approaches, noting his odd, shuffling gait and his crabbed posture, that of an old man in his dotage. His bastard had likely ruined the boy, and from the way that his gaze never rises from its intent examination of the floor, and the way that his hands twitch and fidget with the ragged edges of his sleeves, Roose can tell that at the very least, he had been somewhat damaged. 

A servant arrives, bearing a steaming bowl of water, and several pieces of clean linen. Reek stands motionless as it is quietly placed on the small table, never seeming to notice what goes on around him. Roose does not acknowledge the young page, nor does he expect any sort of gesture of submission. He watches as the young boy in livery prepares the lather, carefully adding powder to the bowl, and mixing it with a steady, even hand. Roose does not suffer clumsy servants, and is pleased when the job is done well. He sits back in the chair, waiting patiently until he has departed and is out of earshot to continue.

“Ramsay,” he repeats. “The razor.” He watches as his bastard slowly approaches the chair, deliberately taking his time, the sullen expression and pouting lip betraying his thoughts at being given orders in front of the Greyjoy hostage. He places the blade delicately in Roose’s upturned palm, jostling the table and slopping the water slightly as he heads out of the room. “No,” Roose says, his fingers wrapping round the razor, taking care not to cut himself. “You will stay.” Although his voice is soft, there is a menace beneath it, and the steady gaze that he holds does not permit any protestation. Ramsay hovers in the door then, hands thrust in his pockets, his strange eyes stark in his pale face, gleaming oddly from his place in the shadows. 

Roose then turns to the creature before him, stunted and quivering, as though he stood naked. “Come,” he says, his voice soft, as gentle as he can make it. _It is like trying to call a beaten dog_ , he thinks, and the comparison is not far from the truth. After all, Theon Greyjoy has cast off his prince’s finery for a collar and rags, and abandoned the halls of Pyke for the dirt floor of a kennel. Roose extends his hand, proffering the razor, and when the boy takes it, genuflecting and gabbling like some addle-brained beggar clutching a star, he leans back in the chair, gesturing toward the table. “Do you know what to do?”

The creature nods, his head bobbing on his spindly neck like a child’s toy. “Yes,” he says, his voice rough from lack of use. “Yes, my lord. Lord Ramsay has bade me shave him many times.”

“I trust that you do it well,” Roose replies, a hint of a smile on his face. He does not expect much from the Greyjoy boy. He had been ill-used after all, and this display is mostly for his bastard’s benefit. It does not do for Ramsay to put on airs. His blood is far too tainted for such affectations, and although Roose is not positioned in such a way to observe, he can picture the boy lurking in the doorway, his eyes bulging and his pulse racing. He really does need to learn some semblance of self-control if he ever hopes to rule the North in any capacity. “I do not suffer my servants to make mistakes. I am not sure what my… _son’s_ …methods are,” and he forces the word out with some difficulty, “but mine are much…subtler.” 

He can practically hear Ramsay’s heated breath as Theon applies the lather to his face, hands missing fingers making a clumsy mess with the brush, and finally casting it aside, spreading the foam with remaining fingers that trembled slightly. It is not until the Greyjoy boy has taken the razor, holding it to Roose’s neck, that Ramsay interferes.

“Are you sure that is wise,” he blurts, “Father?” Ramsay’s voice is heated. “After all, as you so kindly reminded me, he has no loyalty to you, only to me.” 

Roose does not react at first, but he notices how the Greyjoy boy diminishes at the sound of his bastard’s coarse voice, how his hands fold in on themselves, nearly dropping the blade to the floor in their loose and trembling grip. “I have reconsidered. If he is your man, I am not concerned,” he says offhandedly. “I trust that you have trained him well.” And with that, he closes his eyes almost completely, feeling the tentative scrape of the blade against his throat, listening to the rasp of metal against flesh as Theon Greyjoy bends to his task. Roose notices that the boy’s hands become steadier as he goes. Perhaps he is gaining confidence, when he does not suspect a threat lurking beneath courteous words. And when the blade fouls and bites into him, he does not make a move, but waits to see what Theon will do.

He trusts that the Greyjoys are treacherous, certainly. But they are not fools. At least this one…

It falls to the floor with a clatter, foam splashing onto Roose’s boots, onto the rushes, and the boy can only stand there, opening and closing his hands, eyes far too large in that pinched face. Roose feels a slight twinge and when he brings his fingers to the spot, they come away slightly bloody. Just a scratch, nothing more, nothing truly fatal. He watches as the creature before him stares in horror, notices how tense his body is, as though he would like nothing better than to spring from the room. He can see the pulse in his neck, fancies he can almost see the hammering of his heart through his sunken chest. 

Ramsay strides into the room, head lowered like a bull. “Reek,” he says through clenched teeth. Roose watches as the Greyjoy ward backs away, arms wrapping protectively about his wasted form. His bastard continues. “Reek,” he says, his voice a hair calmer, yet still tight. “What have you done to my Lord Father?”

Reek says nothing; he merely stares, eyes enormous in his thin face. But Roose reacts. “Ramsay. You will control yourself.” He bends towards the creature who huddles in front of him, cowering like a disobedient dog expecting a heavy blow, but Roose is not inclined to such overt displays of displeasure. If anything in the situation rankles him, it is his bastard, standing there like a jilted fool, fists clenched by his side, nostrils flared with rage. Ramsay will never successfully rule the Dreadfort if he can not manage to master something so simple as base emotion. He sees it now, hasty lacks of caution, heated words, his line ending with ugly words, a quick scuffle, and a knife in his bastard’s belly. 

Roose picks up the fallen razor, pressing the handle gently into the boy’s hand. “Continue,” he says softly as their fingers brush, and he meets the boy’s gaze. The Greyjoy boy’s eyes dart wildly about, fixing first on the glare of the blade as the light catches it, then on Ramsay’s thunderous expression, and finally on Roose’s own face, smooth and unworried. Their eyes meet for a long time, and finally the boy breaks it, scuffling forward, resigned, although the fear still mars his broken features. But his hands do not shake as they once again position the blade, and continue with their work.


End file.
